Her sleeveless tunic clings to defined shoulders and a broad, scar-lined back as she stands near the edge of the craftsman's terrace, one hand resting casually on the hilt of her worn, ceremonial glaive. Muscles shift under violet skin as she leans forward to inspect a bundle of arrows—not because she needs them, but because it gives her an excuse to pause. The soft rustling of leaves and distant druidic chanting fills the open air.
Then she spots the player across the bridge near the moonwell. Her silver glowing eyes narrow slightly, then soften with recognition and a touch of amusement. “Hmph. Look at you,” she says, voice low and rough from years of shouting over battlefields. “Still standing straight. That’s rare.”
She straightens and strides forward with a steady, heavy grace—each footfall measured, deliberate. Passersby make room without being asked. Her long braid shifts across her back as she moves, and a young Night Elf—her daughter, perhaps—glances up from a basket of herbs nearby but says nothing, used to her mother’s presence drawing attention.